Bonds
by Gasara
Summary: Pre Resident Evil. Chris Redfield drifts aimlessly from town to town, lost, despondent and alone. Finding himself in Raccoon City, can he face his demons and turn his life around before it breaks apart completely?
1. Welcome to Raccoon City

**Author's note: **So here we go! It's been so long since I wrote anything, and this is actually my first time uploading. No one's ever read anything I've written before... It's kind of daunting

Anyway, here is the first part of my new Resident Evil story, 'Bonds'. It follows a young Chris Redfield and a...well, _younger _Barry Burton from their first chance meeting up until the infamous 'Mansion Incident'. I love the S.T.A.R.S. team and wanted to write something about them for a change, rather than just about shambling corpses. Though, of course, I do have an endless affection for said shambling corpses. It just occurred to me that Chris and Barry are meant to have known each other for years and yet, in the course of the entire Resident Evil series, they don't speak one word to each other. It made me curious... Heh. So anyway, I decided to have a go at writing about their relationship, and the relationship of all the S.T.A.R.S. members... So it begins. I hope you enjoy. Feel free to review I'll give you chocolate if you're nice!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Resident Evil in any shape or form. If I did, Remake Chris would be in every game.

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**Welcome to Raccoon City**

The streetlights overhead seemed to mingle into each other, pools of light becoming an indifferent blur as he pressed his foot down upon the accelerator. He had been driving too long. His muscles ached and his eyes began to sting as he tried to focus on the road ahead. The sign he'd passed a few minutes ago told him he was nearly there, nothing more than a few miles away. He'd been desperate for a roadside cafe for the past hour, needing a break and somewhere to refresh himself. His senses were dulling, and he knew that he'd become a danger if he stayed on the road much longer.

Absently, he reached a hand out to flick on the radio. Crackling static filled the car before monotone voices took over, some kind of current affairs program or the like. He didn't care what it was, just hoped the noise could keep him awake a little longer.

_"...along with the mayor, Chief Brian Irons was this morning..."_

Pressure was building up at the nape of his neck, his muscles becoming stiff with fatigue. Lolling his head to the side, he tried to work out the habitual knot of pain, trying to relieve himself of that aching tension. He knew it was futile, but he found himself making a forcible effort to let his shoulders sag. They seemed forever bunched up, coiled and tight and waiting for something to snap, something to channel away the stress from his body. He could feel it growing. He could feel the dark weariness working through his blood. And he knew from experience that when it finally got free, it would be amidst a tirade of fury.

_...breathe..._

So much emotion had welled up inside him throughout the past few weeks, and it was bubbling away under his skin, ready to be unleashed. It was urging him, coaxing him... He could feel his grip tighten on the wheel, his arms taut and eyes narrowed.

_...breathe..._

And then it was gone. With a careful breath, he pushed it away, relaxing his fingers and focusing only on the road before him. He was nearly there, now. Nearly there and then he could rest.

The sound of the radio was nothing but a muffled buzzing in his ears by now, and his legs felt pretty much numb. How long had it been? Eight... No, nearer to ten hours he had been driving. A short break not long after he had set off was all the rest he'd had. It wasn't as though he didn't have the luxury of time, that he couldn't spare himself the break. He was just too impatient. His foul mood wouldn't allow him to extend this journey, or to cut it short. He just wanted to be _there_. He wanted to be there so he could sleep, then to find himself waking up in a new town, with a new day stretched before him. He just damn wanted to be somewhere else.

A little more acceleration and the intermittent road markings turned into a continuous streak of white outside the window. The sounds of other cars on the road beside him were distant, and the humming of his own engine seemed hazy and weak. He'd been surprised the car had made it this far. The miles it had clocked up recently were more than he'd managed in the few years that he'd had it. But then, his old journeys were set and routine, short and predictable, and nothing like the winding, endless driving of these last few weeks. And at times like this, when his entire body seemed to be acutely feeling the vibrations of the ride, he'd found it nothing short of brutal.

He wasn't used to driving so much. He wasn't used to the recurring pain in his shoulder blade from being hunched over the steering wheel for so long. Or the migraines caused by the strain of keeping his sight focused while lights flashed by all around him. After tonight, he wasn't going to do it for a while. Even if the town he ended up at couldn't offer him what he wanted, he'd stay just to give himself a break. Just to let his body rest.

_Sure, just like all the other times..._

He knew himself too well. He knew that he wouldn't. His temperament and restlessness wouldn't allow him to do that. Just like all the other times, he'd be back in his car and on the highway within days. He'd already picked out at least half a dozen places he could go next, already had the number of a hotel in one of them. He just couldn't sit around. Idleness bothered him, gnawed at him. He couldn't bear to let the creeping, dark thoughts reach him when he was vulnerable. He had to keep going, moving, so the thoughts couldn't catch up to him. He couldn't just sit and let himself think, not until he'd sorted himself out. Hell, when that happened he thought he'd probably be able to laugh at himself for this ceaseless journey. But not now. He couldn't even lift a smile.

But, there. That was something. A feeling akin to relief flooded his veins as his weary, aching eyes glimpsed the sign before him. It was the closest thing to contentment he'd felt in a while. With a grateful sigh, he drove on by, the welcome words burned into his mind.

_Welcome to Raccoon City._

xxxxxxxxxx

He eased the car into the parking lot of the rundown motel he'd chosen, tired eyes barely noticing the police car parked across the street. To be honest, he really couldn't care less at the moment. He was used to crime, and he was used to lowlifes. He could deal with it. But he just needed some fucking sleep.

As he settled into a space, the engine shutting off with a satisfying hum, he leaned his head back against the seat and blew the breath from his cheeks.

For a moment, he couldn't move. His eyelids flickered shut and he just sat there, the faint echoes of an argument reaching his ears. Maybe that was the reason for the police presence. He didn't much know or care. If it was, they'd deal with it and that would be that. If not, he'd sleep through it anyway. He could feel himself already begin to drift, his body becoming momentarily weightless as the breathing grew quieter.

_No. Not here..._

In this kind of neighbourhood, he didn't want to be out in the open for too long. It looked like an area ripe for muggings, or drug addicts looking to score. And God knows how many prostitutes were working the motel. Even in his own mind, his thoughts seemed cynical, but he'd seen enough in his life to get a sense for these things.

The motel wasn't looking its best. The tacky neon sign was flickering dully, half the bulbs gone and the shattered remains of the casings scattered over the asphalt. Beer bottles were poking out from underneath the overgrown bushes surrounding the reception entrance, and that coupled with the arguing coloured in the picture that had already formed in his mind. This was hardly a safe place to stay. But again, that came second to his need to sleep. The hotel he'd made reservations at was at least another twenty minutes drive, and that's without the likelihood of him getting lost. And, he noticed as he forced his eyes open, it was starting to rain.

Gentle splashes mottled the windscreen, slow and haphazard. Even from inside the car, he could feel the humidity of the air. When the rain started to fall faster - and it would - it would be well set and heavy. He could barely see clearly now and there was no way he would see at all through the impending downfall.

With a sigh, he rubbed his hands across his face, feeling the prickling of his stubble against his palms. It did little to rouse him, but enough to get him moving. His eyes drifted to the glove box, and he opened it wearily, grabbing the handful of scrunched notes and coins he'd tossed in there earlier. He had to sit forward to reach the back, but when he did his fingers brushed the comforting cool of the Berretta 9mm that he'd bought a few weeks back. It was for protection more than anything else, but it also served as a reminder to him of everything that had come before. He looked it over for a moment, a wistful feeling washing through his body, before he checked the safety and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans. Ordinarily, he wouldn't carry it, but in this place... He wanted it on him. Even if he didn't need it himself, he wouldn't leave it where some crackhead would find it. The world didn't need another doped-up teen with a gun.

He nudged the glove box shut and pocketed his keys. His wallet and mobile were in his jacket, and a night bag was already packed and waiting on the back seat. He reached behind his seat and grabbed at the fabric, dragging it round and onto his lap. That was everything. With one last glance at the rain, he eased the car door open and stepped out into the deluge.

It was pounding down upon the ground now, splashing back upwards like tiny fountains across the asphalt. It had already grown heavy, and he could feel it dripping from the tips of his hair and down in thick rivulets across his face. He shut the car door with the toe of his boot and fumbled the keys into the lock. Although, he grimly reminded himself, that was hardly likely to deter anyone who made up their minds to get in.

His nonchalance didn't concern him. Sure, he'd be pissed if his car was stolen - something else that fate did to stick its fingers up at him - but it would just be another little thing to add the ever-growing list. He just couldn't bring himself to care. He was just... so tired. Of everything.

_Let it go..._

With a sigh, he trudged through the lot, towards the welcoming light of reception. It was a short walk but the rain had already soaked him to the skin, his hair matted against his forehead and clothes plastered to his skin. He stepped in through the grimy, glass-panelled doors and instantly felt the warmth from the storage heater propped against the desk. There was the cloying smell of smoke thick in the air, but even as a smoker himself, he found it overpowering. The carpet was threadbare and the walls and ceiling had turned a dirty yellow colour. It was exactly what he had expected and nothing of what he had hoped for.

With brief civility, he spoke with the man behind the desk, noting the cigar planted firmly between his cracked lips. Gruff responses answered his request for a room, the words being spoken around the smoking cigar, and nothing but a grunt in reply to his thanks. He took up the key that had been tossed upon the stained wood and didn't give the man another glance as he left that choking room.

He was glad to be back out in the fresh air, ducking under the shelter of the balcony above the first floor. The sound of the rain falling faster assaulted his ears as he glanced around for his room. None of them seemed inviting, but as long as it was dry and had a bed, he was fine with it. He wouldn't be staying there long anyway - a few hours sleep and then he'd be on his way again.

_16-B._

That was it. The red lacquer was peeling from the door in great chunks, and the window frames were just as rotten, warped and unsightly against the whitewashed walls. Without another thought, he slipped the key into the lock and stepped inside.

Fumbling a hand along the wall, his fingers flipped the light switch, bathing the room in a crisp, white light, illuminating the small room he had just been overcharged for. He didn't notice much of the details, only the clean, made up bed that occupied most of the space. That was all he needed. His bag dropped at his feet, and he collapsed upon the cool sheets. There was a faint smell of fabric softener left on them, something warm and homely that seemed so out of place with a dump like that. He breathed it in, easing out of his jacket and throwing it over the arm of a nearby chair. A chill pricked at his skin, his fingers working thoughtlessly to undo the buttons of his shirt.

_Shit._

His eyes fell to the pocket of his jacket. He stared at it for a moment, then sighed and reached over to where he had just discarded it. If he didn't call, she'd worry. That was the thought that made him move. Leaning forward, he grabbed his mobile and flipped it open. A single bar of reception flashed at him, flickering and then disappearing altogether.

_Oh, fucking great._

He snapped it closed and grunted as he got back to his feet, snatching up his room key again and trudged unhappily back outside. Just his luck. He squinted around, through the rain and the dark, and finally spotted a phone booth on the opposite side of the yard. Bracing himself for the onslaught of rain, he stepped out into the lot and jogged across expanse, feeling the wet on his skin more acutely than he had before. As soon as he was there, he dragged the rusting door closed behind him, fishing for the quarters he had stuffed in his pocket. The handset was heavy and slightly greasy in his hand. He didn't want to think about why. He simply fed in the quarters and punched in the number that was imprinted on his mind.

There was a beat of silence, and then the rolling dial tone droned into the silence. The dust-streaked glass of the booth became misted up as he huffed impatiently, half-itching to hang up and go back inside. His irritability and impatience were by-products of his lack of sleep, but he at least still had the presence of mind to pay it no attention. This phone call had to be made. He waited a little longer, hearing the quiet rumble of the sixth ring, before he heard the sleep-quiet voice on the other end. He released a breath he didn't know he had been holding, and felt the small smile that tugged at his lips. After such a bitch of a day, that voice was like Heaven. He glanced out towards the silhouetted outline of Raccoon City, feeling just a little of the tension and anger leaving his body as he tiredly smiled into the handset.

"Hey, Claire. It's Chris. I'm here."


	2. Coffee and Gun Oil

**Author's ****note: **Wowies. I wrote this chapter in a day. Okay, so it's not really that long but... I quite like how it turned out. It's all very... moody. I like that. I hope it comes across when you read it, too. Just keep in mind Chris' unhappy face, and dark, grubby streets strewn with litter... Raccoon really is quite a dump, isn't it? Anyway, I won't distract you with my rambling any longer. Please review if you can!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Resident Evil in any shape or form. If I did, I wouldn't have Nemesis chase Carlos because he's clearly not in S.T.A.R.S...

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**Coffee and Gun Oil**

The coffee was thick and bitter as it slid down his throat. It wasn't how he liked to drink it, but its warmth was comforting and the caffeine did just enough to take the edge off his tiredness. He was turning his lighter round in his hand as he read the morning paper, the smoothness teasing his fingers and the familiar weight a comfort to him. His scuffed packet of cigarettes lay on the table top, unopened, and the muted sounds of the old black and white television barely reached him.

Chris had passed Emmy's diner as he drove towards the motel the previous night and, on waking up famished, had decided to backtrack a little for some breakfast. It had been a little greasy and unappealing to look at, but after a day of barely eating, and a rough night in the motel, it had tasted like Heaven. The knife and forked criss-crossed over the empty plate and the serviette was scrunched up into a ball at its side. Before he had taken up his lighter, that crumpled paper had served as a crude stress ball to try to relieve some of that ever-present tension.

His belief that he could sleep through anything had been a little flawed. Maybe just an hour after he'd reached the motel, the sounds of heavy boots crashing down and racing over the floor above had jolted him awake. He'd been somewhat bleary and disorientated, but the distinct sound of gunshots had cleared his senses immediately. There had been three of them, the unmistakable popping of a handgun. Fire and return-fire. He'd been on his feet and through the door before he'd even realised what he was doing. Then he'd seen the police officer on the opposite side of the parking lot, looking up at the balcony above his room and calling the incident in. That had allowed him to breathe a little easier. After that, he had simply shuffled back to the lingering warmth of the bed and given the episode no more thought.

Of course, having already been woken once, his body was reluctant to fall back into that deep, dark sleep. Instead, he'd only caught snatches, waking and then falling again until bright, crisp sunlight forced his eyes open and dragged him from his ragged slumber. Outside the window, he had seen the escaping tendril of yellow crime scene tape whipping in the breeze. It had seemed like fate had been rubbing it in.

Regardless, he had risen and showered and ridded himself of his rough stubble until he faintly resembled the man he used to be. His eyes were still dull and darkly shadowed against his sickly, pale skin. He had been wearing himself into the ground, he could _feel_ himself doing it, but he just couldn't seem to be able to take an objective step back. He just couldn't stop. Even now, his tired eyes were scanning the local newspaper for jobs and apartments, searching the mini-map for his next port of call. It was all he could do to keep himself going.

_It's all for her..._

Hearing Claire's voice had given him a sense of relief he hadn't felt in a while. It had been maybe a week since they had last spoken, and then it had only led to another argument and bitter silence. It seemed to be the way of it recently... But last night... He had called her, and he had heard the same relief in her voice that he knew she could hear in his. That had been enough to clear the air between them. She'd wanted to know all about the city he'd found himself in, and he had joked that he'd send her a postcard. Of course, she had laughed lightly at that, allowing herself to be caught up in the gentle, tired humour to hang onto whatever sense of normality remained between them.

They had talked until the quarters ran out, and he'd raised his voice over the final beeps of the phone call, telling her he loved her and that he would call again in a few days. She had responded in kind before the line severed completely and he was left with the mechanical tone filling the unwanted silence.

But it had been enough. It had been more than that to hear her say that she understood, that it was okay. He had been grateful, but he knew it was a lie. This wasn't okay for either of them. It was like being on a merry-go-round that wouldn't stop. It was just something that he found himself doing, something that had no absolution at the end of it. None that he could see anyway.

He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, crumpling the paper in his fist as he turned the page roughly. The words had stopped sinking in, had become nothing more than a monotone blur across his vision. His fingers reached up to pinch at the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut as distant pressure began to throb in his skull.

"Here."

His eyes blinked open as a soft voice reached his ears. A pretty face was smiling lightly at him as another cup of coffee was set on the table at his elbow.

"You look as though you need this."

Chris pulled himself upright and started to reach for the cash in his pocket.

"On the house," she added quickly, widening her smile just a little.

Caught a little off guard, Chris stumbled for his words. He was so wrapped up in himself that he hadn't even heard her come over, and could barely think now he'd been jolted from his trance. He nodded once, and let his senses return to him before he finally offered her a small, rueful smile.

"Is it that obvious?"

The waitress tilted her head slightly, her warm eyes softening. She didn't look more than eighteen, but her eyes seemed older than her years. He guessed that working in a place like this - a small, simple diner with its basic menu and plastic tables - she'd seen many people with their many ways and problems. She'd probably talked with all of them, offering a service that cost nothing and yet was so invaluable. However, it _had_ taken something from her. She had grown up too quickly, been exposed to the many undesirable traits of man too soon. Jaded and cynical... That's how this road ended. And it was painful to see.

"Are you just passing through, or are you staying here?" she asked, leaning forward to reach for his discarded plate.

He leaned back out of the way, unveiling the paper that he had been hunched over. Her eyes caught the page and she didn't require his answer anymore.

"There are plenty of jobs going in Raccoon," she offered, scrunching up the serviette in her fist before dropping it onto the plate. "They always want people in the factories around here, and I heard they're looking for contractors and labourers for the renovation of the art museum."

"Thanks." He stopped her before she could continue. "But I don't think I'll be staying."

He'd noticed the abrupt tone that wrapped around his words, and saw the way her smile faltered just a little. _Shit_. He was doing it again. He shook his head softly and gestured towards the steaming cup in front of him, forcing a smile that he hoped didn't look too fake.

"Thanks for this."

She nodded at him, that smile unfolding again and her eyes seeming just a little brighter.

"No worries," she grinned. "If you come back again, there'll be another one waiting for you."

She turned and headed back behind the counter, leaving Chris to stare after her with a confused frown on his face. He'd been wrong before. He could tell by the way she had reciprocated his smile. It had been just as fake as his. She had been jaded and cynical long before she got this job.

Chris had found that he had a natural ability to read people, to get a sense for them. It had probably stemmed from his training, and all those hours staring after Claire trying to figure out what she was thinking. And he could see that girl. She was just as broken as he was. She came to work every day with that hollow smile, eyes looking out for souls as damaged as hers. She needed that contact, needed to be able to make them smile again as she waited desperately for someone to do the same for her. And, shit, she was still just a child.

He wrapped his hands around the warm mug and brought it to his lips, dragging his eyes away from the waitress and back to his own problems. But in the back of his mind, nagging at him as he tried to clear his thoughts away, he couldn't help but wonder what the hell this city did to people.

xxxxxxxxxx

It started raining again shortly after Chris started his second cup of coffee. He waited in the cool diner a while, watching as people filed in out of the downpour before he finally grew impatient. The buzzing of ceaseless voices was starting to give him a headache and the clamour and fidgeting all around him was getting on his last nerve. He threw down a handful of notes onto the counter top, not stopping to give the waitress another look, and stepped out into the street.

It was mid-Spring, and the bitter morning chill was still clinging to him. He shrugged deeper into his suede jacket as he sidestepped and ducked his way through the busy streets. A canopy of umbrellas sheltered the streets as people weaved in and out, up and through and onwards to their destination. Chris hadn't had the presence of mind to bring one along with him, not that he particularly minded anyway. The rain wasn't as heavy as it had been last night, and in between the peaks of tall buildings he could see glimpses of blue sky fighting for dominance over the tumbling grey clouds.

The buildings themselves were what caught his attention most, though. From what he had seen so far, there didn't seem to be any recent structures around. Office blocks and shop fronts, even the apartments and the diner had a distinct retro look about them. Carvings and moulds from the fifties dominated the streets, heavy stone cladding throwing dark shadows out over the sidewalk. He'd read that Raccoon was prospering and developing quickly, but that was clearly typical, lax journalism. Either that or business propaganda.

The pharmaceutical company, Umbrella, played a big part in the economy of the city, so he'd read. They'd had a hand in the running of the local hospital and enticed many Raccoon residents onto their payroll. He could hear the cynicism in his own inner voice again. He just couldn't help but think that it was nothing more than a good marketing ploy. Sure, they were obviously giving a great deal back to the people of Raccoon City, but in the end they were a business and their annual profits could probably fund the running of the entire city itself. The locals couldn't even dream of having that much money at their disposal. And most of them probably wouldn't even know how much they were being ripped off.

Big businesses pissed him off. Law firms and banks leeched from the public, from the good, hard-working citizens who scrimped and saved just to get by. Even hospitals and their medical insurance... Who could really put a price on life?

He shook his head roughly, feeling his anger quell a little, and pushed on forward through the rain-soaked streets. The shadow of his foul mood was stalking him again. Such little things that would ordinarily just niggle him seemed to be clouding his mind completely, turning his thoughts dark and unforgiving. He was quick to snap, and it was starting to frighten him. Okay, so he'd always had a pretty short fuse, but it had never been so constant and his outbursts had never been so aggressive. He didn't like the road he was heading down but he didn't know how to stop it either. He simply just tried to ignore it, attempting to tame the beast and calm himself before he acted. But recently... It was becoming more difficult. His grip was starting to loosen.

Distracted, he brushed past someone and bumped his shoulder against theirs. He turned immediately, the apology already tumbling from his lips, but whoever he'd hit had already walked away and been swallowed up by the crowd. He stared blankly for a second, watching the scowls on a couple of people's faces as they had to make a pointed effort of walking around him.

Domestics, gun crime, depression, ignorance... What kind of city was this? What kind of people were living in this quiet suburb, being moulded in such a way?

Why did he care? He'd already made up his mind that he would be on the road again in a few days. He didn't think he could stand living in such a drab, uninviting place as this. The weather seemed to compliment the city's temperament.

_Heh. Then again, wouldn't I just fit right in..._

He carried on walking again, hearing the distant chiming of a clock announcing noon. Even so, he automatically glanced at his watch, a habit that he found he couldn't shake. The hands ticked by, ever constant, and he sighed and dropped his wrist back down to his side. He couldn't help but wonder what the hell he was doing there.

xxxxxxxxxx

The old, battered truck bucked and jolted its way through the pot-holed back alley. Its wheels skidded slightly over the sheen of water that sat on the oil-slicked asphalt. Scraping past a rusting dumpster, the putrid smell momentarily filling the cab, the driver pulled a sharp right and turned into a tighter space between the high-rise buildings.

Up ahead, he could see the signage of Kendo's gun shop, the proprietor propped against one wall and puffing away on a cigarette. Things were obviously a little slow this morning.

He eased the truck to a stop, calling out a greeting to the man waiting for him. A hand was thrown up in his direction, a murmur of greeting seeping through the lips still closed around the cigarette. He'd never been a smoker himself and still couldn't see the appeal of breathing in smoke and filling your lungs with tar. Of course, he was also a father and made a point of setting an example. He wouldn't smoke for his kids' sakes. They were still young but he couldn't help trying to protect them from things that were depressingly becoming commonplace amongst _children_.

With a bitter grunt, he dropped from the truck and walked around to the side so he could get a better view of the shop. He'd only visited it a couple of times before, after a recommendation from the chief of the Raccoon Police Department, Brian Irons. The first time they'd met, Kendo had been more than accommodating even before he'd handed over the letter of introduction Irons had insisted he take with him. He was craftsman, and a complete expert on pretty much any kind of weapon. Guns were his passion though, and he'd been pleasantly surprised when told he'd come highly recommended. He was one of those types of people who didn't need praise. They did what they did because they loved it, not to get insincere gratitude and admiration.

His face broke into a grin as he stubbed his cigarette out on the sharp brick fronting.

"Mr. Burton," he acknowledged with a nod.

Barry returned the gesture and strode over to shake his hand.

"Robert. How are things?"

"Good. Fine," he offered, glancing around with a smile at the empty street. "A little quiet, but I guess that's to be expected."

Barry frowned as he unfolded the back panel of the old pick up. "Why's that?"

Robert stepped forward to help him clear the tarpaulin from the truck, uncovering crates and black smudges of gunpowder over the wooden slats.

"Warren and Irons are really pushing for a restriction on firearms licences," he explained, no sense of distaste or disapproval in his voice. "They've been quite vocal about it recently, trying to dissuade people from littering the city with unnecessary weapons. It seems the public are taking it to heart."

Warren, the mayor of Raccoon City. Barry had heard good things about him. He'd been more than happy to complete the things he'd claimed he would during the election race. Like anyone, Barry had assumed he'd been bullshitting. But the hospital, plus the renovations of the Municipal building and the utility works... He'd really proven his worth, and his title. It was a nice change from the smarmy politicians who only saw to line their own pockets. And with what Kendo was saying about lowering gun crime, he seemed almost too good to be true.

"Is it really affecting the business that badly?" he asked, pushing aside damp cardboard boxes to make space in the back of the truck.

Robert shook his head. "It's not really walk-in trade that keeps me going. I'll do just fine without them. I've still got contracts within the town, and I trade with people in the bigger cities so it's really fine. It's just the conversations with the locals I miss."

He gave a smile and cocked his head in the direction of the shop.

"Come on. I'll give you a hand with your order. You'll want to get your truck loaded up quickly; it's fast turning into a bucket out here."

Barry gave a low laugh and followed Robert out of the rain and into the warmth of the shop. It was small and shabby; the lights dim and walls dark, closing in the already cramped space. Locked cabinets lined the walls and leaflets and gun magazines scattered the counter tops. It was organised chaos, though a place like this didn't need to be much more. Its patrons didn't pay much mind to the state of the shop so it was unnecessary for Robert to pay out for renovations or repairs. The money he made was fed back into the business, going full circle until it came back round again. Barry couldn't help but admire men like him.

That's why he was there now. If Irons gave the go ahead for a new taskforce to be set up in the city, Barry would need someone like Kendo to back him up. Sure, they were still talking about the proposal - they hadn't even laid down the basic plans to get it all up and running if they were permitted - but it didn't hurt to start making contacts early. He'd learned that years ago. And in any case, he thought that he'd still keep in touch with Kendo even if the plans never came to fruition. His was a talent and passion that seemed so rare nowadays.

Of course, that event would also lead to the uprooting of his family again. He couldn't say that his wife was really happy about moving to Raccoon, and he wasn't keen on the idea of pulling his kids out of their school but... This opportunity was too good not to take. His wife had been pleased for him, and nothing but supportive, but he could still sense the hesitation that had been nagging at her. She didn't stand in his way, but he knew she didn't want to leave either. It had been tough for all of them, but their new house and neighbours were nice, and the kids had already made new friends. It was all slowly starting to become normal. He just wasn't sure what she would think if they had no reason to stay, if the plans fell through.

He shook his head to clear the thoughts. Separating his home and work lives had always been tricky for him, especially at times where he knew something was bothering his family. He just couldn't seem to push it aside. Which, he guessed, was a good trait.

_Yeah, but not if your screw up this inventory list..._

His mind snapped back to the task at hand, eyes running over the crates and boxes stacked up in the storeroom where Kendo had led him. It was a typical order of munitions for his team, a kind of job interview for Kendo. It was a bitch doing the inventory by himself, but he was the interviewer, and it would be with his commendation that Kendo would land himself another contract.

"He's the paperwork," Kendo said from behind him, reaching round to pass over a folder that was as thick as a small booklet. "I managed to get a hold of everything you asked for, and even got a deal on the 9mm rounds for you. That'll drop the price a little."

Barry glanced up from the itemised list and nodded. He opened his mouth to give his thanks when the sound of a bell ringing stole his voice.

"Ah, a customer," Kendo smiled. "You'll be okay with this while I mind the shop? There's coffee in the pot over there."

Barry nodded again. "Yeah. Thanks."

Kendo stepped past him and out into the shop again, leaving him facing several packed boxes and the muted anticipation of trawling through each one. He hated this shit. It wasn't just ticking off each item from the inventory list; it was inspecting each weapon closely, looking for wear or malfunctions, test firing if necessary. A cache this size would take him a couple of hours at least. He sighed deeply and instead turned to the steaming coffee pot. Kendo was a godsend.

He could hear his voice through the paper-thin walls, talking lightly with a potential customer. The other voice was male, and young. Probably mid-twenties. He'd been through the training, he knew people. In his line of work it was a matter of life or death sometimes. To be able to read tone, to pick out a word that meant something else, to hear the words people weren't saying... These tricks had saved his life on a number of occasions. And he found them hard to shake in everyday life.

Grabbing his coffee, he tried to drown out the voices as he lowered himself onto an upturned case and started flicking through the paperwork.

_Right, item number one..._

xxxxxxxxxx

He turned the Glock 17 over in his hands, running his palm along the cool metal of the barrel. The grip was thick and heavy, just enough weight to control the buck of the recoil. He preferred this model to any other handgun he'd used. Something just felt _right_ about it. More so than with the Berretta he carried now.

"Of course, as a first time buyer, the price covers a box of 9mm rounds."

Chris nodded thoughtfully. He didn't need _another_ gun, but he couldn't resist stepping inside the shop when he'd happened upon it. Now, he found himself considering using the Beretta as part payment on this one.

"Hey, Robert. I haven't got the paperwork for the AK."

A deep, rich voice pulled him from his musings, and he looked up to see a well-built frame leaning round the door of the back room. A frown was settled on his round face, his mouth caught in a half-smile, almost apologetic.

"Shit," Kendo cursed. "It's downstairs in the office."

Chris saw him glance between himself and the newcomer before that rich voice spoke up again.

"You go," he ordered softly. "I'll keep an eye on things here for you."

There was the sound of movement, and footsteps fading away but Chris had returned his gaze the gun in his grip and didn't much care. However...

_An AK-47... _

Impressive weapon. This guy clearly wasn't some walk-in job. He was in the business somehow. Chris glanced up to find the man looking at him, one hand scuffing through his short, dark beard. He was propped against the display cabinet opposite him, staring intently in his direction. Chris felt a little uncomfortable under that invading gaze and shifted his weight onto his right foot as he lowered his eyes back to the Glock.

"You looking for something for protection?"

That deep, warm voice easily filled the ragged silence, forcing Chris' gaze back up. The guy pushed himself forward and crossed the space between them. He cocked his head at the gun in his hands.

"You've got taste, I'll give you that."

He was smiling, dark eyes watching for a reaction. Chris frowned a little, handing the gun over for him to inspect. He took it eagerly, turning it round and testing the weight in his hands. Chris watched him as he ejected the empty clip, slipped it back into place then checked the line of the sight. He knew what he was doing, that was for sure. For a moment, Chris wondered if he worked here, but the guy's next words told him otherwise.

"It's a custom model," he murmured, attention on the weapon rather than the young man in front of him. "Well-crafted. You gonna take it?"

He handed the Glock back to Chris who took it with a shrug.

"Not sure."

He didn't offer any more than that, suddenly feeling lost amongst the pleasantries. He wasn't even sure why he'd come in here in the first place. He just knew he felt... a little lost without a firearm at his side. It sounded stupid, he knew it. But he was so used to carrying that he couldn't help feeling a little exposed without one. He'd just been drawn in by the familiar scent of powder and gun oil. Applying for a new licence would be a pain, but the gun just felt so right in his hands.

"But from what I've seen of Raccoon already, it woundn't hurt."

That elicited a gentle laugh from the man beside him. "You're right there. I thought the same thing when I arrived, too. Name's Barry."

He held out a hand and Chris took it, feeling his palm dwarfed by the fist that covered it.

"Chris."

Barry nodded, taking a step back again to lean against the cabinet. "So from that reaction, I guess you're not a cop. But you're in the business, right?"

Chris allowed himself a small smile and dipped his head.

"I guess you could say that."

He supposed it was true. He was just... in between jobs at the moment. There was no point giving this guy his life story, and he didn't care much to spill his troubles. He gave the answer that most broadly covered his situation.

"So, you're a military man," Barry guessed, _correctly_ - he could tell. "You in town for business or pleasure?"

Chris couldn't help feeling a little overwhelmed by Barry's honest friendliness. It was nice, he guessed, to find someone so open in a new town, but he just wasn't in the mood. He was tired and a little cold, and he didn't have the patience to keep avoiding questions he couldn't be bothered to make excuses for. He had to say he was relieved when footsteps sounded nearby and the proprietor stepped back onto the shop floor.

"Here it is," he smiled, handing over a few pieces of paper stapled together.

Barry took it and briefly raised it in the air.

"Back to work then," he muttered, heading for the storeroom. He turned and gave a warm smile. "Nice to meet you."

Chris nodded. "You too."

He didn't think he had reciprocated the smile. It didn't matter though, and he turned his attention back to the clerk who was looking at him with interest. He offered an apology for having to leave which Chris dismissed with a wave of his hand.

"So, have you decided?" Kendo asked, nodding at the Glock still resting in his hands.

Chris looked at it again before placing it down on the counter top. He shook his head softly.

"No," he answered after a pause. "I think I'll leave it. Thanks."

He didn't hear the words Kendo offered him as he left the shop. All he could think was how much it had bothered him to answer those questions. To evade the truth. To _lie. _And he realised, as he walked through the endless rain, that he was ashamed of himself, of the events that had led him to this point. He found himself sagging against the dripping brick wall, glancing down into his reflection in the pool of water at his feet. There was nothing but a shadow staring back at him, unfamiliar eyes and an expression of disdain.

He didn't even recognise the man.


	3. Calm Before the Storm

**Author****s****Note** Hmm... This chapter took a lot longer to write than the previous two, didn't it? Sorry about that. I've reread it countless times because a lot of it was written in bitty sections when my mind wandered onto other things and I was worried it would sound stilted. I think it turned out alright though. And I must have been feeling good about it because I even let Chris smile a little this chapter. But I guess if you try hard enough, even the darkest of times can hold a little humour...

Reviews are always helpful, so please leave one if you can. Thanks for reading!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Resident Evil in any shape or form. If I did, I would have given Roy the role in Resident Evil 2 he was going to have in 1.5...

* * *

**Calm Before the Storm**

It turned out that the hotel Chris had picked wasn't much better than the motel he'd lain awake in that first night. It was comfortable enough, and a little cleaner, but it all still looked very dated. That was his impression of the entire town so far. It was as though time had stopped, yet the city kept decaying.

He wiped a hand over the dust-grimed windows, smearing it away to peer outside into the alleyway below. The metal stairs of the fire escape dissected his view, throwing down a cat's cradle of shadows onto the rain-dampened street. The downpour still hadn't let up. Tiny beads of water clung to the window pane like strung pearls.

_April showers..._

Wasn't that how it went? His eyes followed the city skyline, the silhouettes of the structured architecture blatant and crude against the backdrop of leafy, rebellious forest in the distance. It was such a strange place, he found himself musing, with it's drab, depressing atmosphere and progress that was barely noticeable. Of course, he hadn't been around, or even aware of, Raccoon when it had been just a fledgling new town; he hadn't seen the changes the city had gone through. But, he thought silently, he didn't much give a damn either way. All it had done for him was give him one hell of a headache.

After his encounter at the gun shop, he'd found himself feeling more than a little humiliated, and thoroughly pissed off. It had led him on an angry march back to where he'd left his car at the motel. All the time he had been inwardly cursing himself and puffing furiously on a cigarette, breathing in the nicotine to calm him and steady the shake in his hands. It had made him feel like a kid again, guiltily making excuses and offering lies to avoid people finding out he'd done something wrong; the way he had lied to his parents when they had found a packet of cigarettes in his room when he was only just sixteen... It was a defence mechanism that kicked in automatically, protecting him from the ill thoughts of others. Protecting his reputation so that Claire wouldn't suffer.

That's what it had always been about.

Claire... his parents... Those were the thoughts that had chased after him on his long, solitary walk. He'd tried to push them away, to black them out just for a little while but it hadn't been that easy. They continued to gnaw at him, eking out the last remaining drop of pride he had left within him until he lashed out at the nearest wall in a paroxysm of fury.

A knuckle popped, and his fingers came away scraped raw and bleeding. It had fucking _hurt_. For a moment, he had just stood there, staring at the hashed network of red with something akin to relief working its way through his heated blood. The pain was a relief. He'd wanted it to hurt. He'd wanted to feel that fucking pain, that deep, stinging rawness. He'd wanted to feel like he was being punished, wanted some kind of reprimand instead of being told it was okay. It fucking wasn't. He'd screwed up so bad and no one seemed to give a damn. Not even Claire, who had comforted him and assured him that it wasn't his fault. She had mistakenly believed that he wanted absolution. And even though he had wanted to push her away and yell that she was being stupid, that he deserved what he had got and that she should be furious and disappointed... He just couldn't. He couldn't add to her grief and had simply sat there unmoving as she wrapped her arms around him and buried her head into the crook of his neck.

_It's okay, Chris... We'll figure something out... It's okay..._

Except, it wasn't. And it wouldn't be until he could find a way to put things right.

He'd grunted bitterly when he had raised his bleeding knuckles to his lips, that thought clear in his mind. Just what had he done already? Nothing. There he was in some backwater town, running away from his mistakes again. Running further and further away from the one person who gave a damn.

The acute pain he had felt then, thinking over those words, had come from a knot within his stomach, a violent twist of guilt and self-loathing. It had been enough to get him moving again. His feet had pounded down on the wet sidewalk as heavily as the rain that had continued to fall. Watered down blood dripped from his fisted hands, pale red and glassy against his skin. His eyes had been focused directly ahead, ignoring the tingling sensation in his fingers, marching along stiff and wholly unhappy, half expecting to find his car either missing or vandalised. Much to his relief though, and he had to admit to his surprise, it had still been sitting untouched in the parking lot when he had arrived. He had climbed in tiredly, flexing his aching fingers, and then wrapped them around the steering wheel. Everything after that had been somewhat of a blur. Driving through the rain-soaked streets, finding the hotel... It was all an unconscious haze of weary emotion. All he knew was that he had simply crashed onto the cool sheets of the freshly made bed, and had welcomed the deep sleep that had claimed him almost instantly.

He had slept straight through the rest of the afternoon and the night, waking a little after six that morning. For a moment he had forgotten where he was, drained and still caught up in the haze of sleep. Then it had all flooded back on a wave of emotion. He had been half-tempted to close his eyes, roll over and go back to sleep but for once his better judgement had triumphed. Instead he had risen and showered, washing away the remaining, clinging tendrils of the previous day, and now he was running through his plans for the next few hours.

_What can I do?_

That was what he was thinking, leaning against the window frame and watching the bustling of the people below. A cool breeze was tracing an icy breath across his face as he took a drag on the cigarette hanging from his lips.

_What _should _I do?_

He was acting like an asshole, that much he knew. He could see it even in the way he had brushed off that guy from the gun shop whose only fault had been to try and be sociable. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he thought that. His character flaws were the first thing he needed to fix...

He shook his head to urge the thought away, but his mind couldn't help but linger on that meeting. Part of him wanted to go back to that shop, Kendo's or whatever it was called. He'd fled from there yesterday, like some child convinced they could hear footsteps following them in the dark. That self-defence mechanism kicking in again... But there was something... He shook his head again. As stupid as it seemed, and as uncomfortable as he had felt, that Barry guy was the first person he'd spoken to in nearly two months who had actually seemed remotely decent. The fact that someone wasn't giving him an icy stare had thrown him as much as the questions being directed at him. Of course, he knew the reason why people had reacted like that.

_It's because you've been walking around these past few weeks under a fucking rain cloud. People can see it and avoid you for fear of getting their asses kicked._

He rubbed at his eyes, feeling a familiar pressure build up behind the sockets. Massaging his temple with one hand, he flicked the ash from his cigarette with the other. The cloying smoke was filtering out through the cracks in the window frame, and he inhaled the fresh, cool air that drifted in. Now that the rain had passed over, the warmth of the newly woken sun was just starting to chase away the chill. His skin prickled as the pale rays reached him. He'd stupidly collapsed last night still dressed in his soaking clothes and it had left him a little sensitive this morning. Lightly chafing his bare arms, he stood up from where he was perched against the dated dresser and stubbed his cigarette out into a smoky-glass ashtray. He couldn't bear sitting idle any longer.

With what seemed like great effort, he moved from the comfortable warmth of the early morning sun and snatched up his keys and mobile from the bedside table. He didn't know where he was heading, only knew that he needed to get out to clear his head of the suffocating thoughts. He grabbed a black shirt from the holdall at his feet and shrugged it on, flipping open his phone to check for messages. None. It shut with a low snap and he shoved it the pocket of his khaki combats, along with the wallet he took from his suede jacket.

Giving the room one last glance, he headed to the dirty, glossed door, kicking his feet into his battered, canvas sneakers. They were still a little damp from the soaking they'd had yesterday, but that haunting impatience was there again, driving him through the door before he could even think about changing them. With quick, restless steps, his feet carried him through the small corridor and out into the connecting stairwell.

_Shit._

His cigarettes were still on the dressing table. He hovered on the last step of the floor, glancing over his shoulder up at the stairs he had descended as though he could somehow see the offending item from here.

_Ah, dammit._

He scowled bitterly, continuing down the last flight of stairs. That was just typical. Expelling the breath from his cheeks, he pushed out into the open expanse of the lobby, his eyebrows forming a perfect frown over his face. This was going to be another great day.

XXXXXXXXX

Barry's heavy work boots slapped across the tiled floor of the museum lobby, dull echoes ringing out through the cavernous hall.

_So this is going to be the new police station..._

He rested his palms against the rough wood of the railing that ran along the edge of the raised entrance steps, craning his neck to gaze up at the triple-height ceiling. Two dusty walkways ran around three edges of the hall, overlooking the vast and empty space. It was incredible. He had circled the room a couple of times already, amazed and speechless. Even with the scaffolding disguising most of the architecture, the feel of the place was just... He shook his head softly, feeling the smile creep onto his face.

_Wholly inappropriate._

When word had reached him about the relocation of the current station, he'd been expecting a new building. Steel and glass. But this... As impressive as it was as museum, it didn't have the right feeling as a police station. It was too grand, to theatrical. But then, of course, Irons was in charge.

He'd only met the man a handful of times, but from those brief encounters Barry had gathered that Irons was a bit on the eccentric side. The small office room he occupied at the current station was decorated, if you could call it that, with stuffed, mounted animals. A taxidermy enthusiast, Irons was blunt and unapologetic about everything. He liked what he liked, and that was how it should be. He was not a man to be questioned, nor was he a man to be placated. Barry could tell by the way people fawned over him that he was in favour of sycophancy, though he did not offer any sort of civility to others himself. A fan of the press, and of being in the spotlight, he thrived on attention and praise. He was, Barry noted, exactly the kind of man who would decide to move the station into an old art gallery.

His promotion had barely been finalised and he had already made such important decisions seemingly on a whim. Although he was technically still only the Captain of the S.T.A.R.S. unit, he already held the power of his new title of Chief of Police. And he was milking it for all he was worth.

He clicked his tongue against his cheek.

"Ah, I don't know..." he breathed, a small smile of bewildered disbelief gracing his lips.

Just as the words faded into silence, his prospective boss stepped through one of the panelled wooden doors on the left of the hall. His pudgy face was creased in thought, a scowl drifting across his pale features. He was dressed in a cheap brown suit, his thinning hair greased back and one hand was tweaking that ugly moustache he insisted on growing. Barry stood up straight, his shoulders pulled back, and tried to hide his amused expression. Professionalism was key here.

"Ah, Barry," Irons started as he caught sight of him from across the hall. "You're early."

Barry bit back the smirk and forced himself to nod.

_No, you're ten minutes late..._

"I wanted to take a look around," he lied, humouring the newly appointed chief. "It's quite the building."

Irons nodded impatiently, not bothering to disguise the fact he was in no mood for pleasantries. He was striding across the tiled floor, his footsteps making quick, sharp peals in the open lobby. Barry could tell by the way he carried himself, tense and drawn tall, that he was trying to disguise the fact he was putting on weight. He was loosing his shape, already indulging himself in his new desk job. The lean muscle was turning to fat, but Irons wouldn't do anything about it, and was too vain to let other people see. Barry couldn't help but dislike this guy. He was all ego.

He pushed his personal feelings aside and stepped forward to formally greet the chief. They briefly shook hands, Irons making a point of being the aggressor in the action to confirm his role as alpha male. Barry inwardly rolled his eyes, Irons' face an absolute picture of self-appreciation. It was going to take all his patience to get along with this man.

"It's just the two of us this morning," Brian started, directing Barry towards the door he had just entered the hall through. "Unfortunately, Wesker was called away this morning. Unavoidable, I'm afraid."

_Great..._

Albert Wesker. The new S.T.A.R.S. Captain. Barry had yet to meet him in person but had spoken with him over the phone a fair amount recently. His voice was cool and calm, always undisturbed and professional. It was almost flat and emotionless... There was something though, bubbling under the surface... He couldn't place it. But from his tone and command of language, Barry knew that this man was fiercely intelligent and had exactly the right composure and attitude for his new position. His service record was more than impressive, and he held the admirable ability of being able to blow of the chief of police before his promotion had even been finalised. Barry couldn't help thinking he was going to like this guy.

He had been looking forward to finally meeting him face to face but now all he had left was the muted anticipation of a morning spent in the company of Irons. He shook his head and followed the new chief into a small waiting room where paintings still hung on the shabby walls. His lips parted to speak, but Irons swung back round to face him.

"Oh," he muttered, his dark eyes narrowing as though remembering something important. "Good news. The board finally saw my way of things."

Barry raised his eyebrows, noting how Irons made it sound as though it was all _his_ doing. Again, it was something he would have to get used to hearing. The impact of his words came second to that personal analysis, but when it finally hit him he couldn't help but feel the relief wash through him. Pride and excitement flushed through his body, and the grin came unbidden.

"So then..?"

Irons gave a polite smile, before moving on again as though he hadn't said anything of great import.

"Yes. Welcome to the R.P.D."

XXXXXXXXXX

_Fucking rain._

It hadn't taken it long for it to start up again. The maddening clouds gathered overhead, crowding in on the ever-darkening sky. The first drops were haphazard and lazy, scattering uncertainly as if testing the air. Apparently satisfied, its inhibitions melted away and it proceeded to thoroughly piss it down.

For a moment Chris stood in some kind of mute shock, staring up at the angry sky with a disgruntled expression on his handsome face. For a moment, he could do nothing else.

_Fucking typical!_

People blurred in a flurry of haste. Umbrellas bloomed like spring flowers all around him, and all he could do was gape silently and curse his rotten luck. Of course, it had to start _just_ as he was leaving the cafe he'd had lunch in. His car was parked on the other side of the park which demanded a long, wandering walk through open ground if he wanted to retrieve it. And he laughed a little, softly shaking his head. At least he knew where he stood.

Maybe he'd always been a little paranoid. Maybe he'd always jumped to conclusions. It wasn't a desirable trait, but it was inborn and unfading. And when things like this happened, he couldn't help but just _believe_ it was true. The world hated him.

He wiped a hand across his face and blinked water from his eyes as he glanced ahead and followed the cracked sidewalk forward. The humidity was rising even as the rain fell faster, and Chris could smell the thick, cloying scent of thunder in the air. He could feel it coming, tangible and furious. And in spite of it all, the rain felt good on his skin. It felt clean and refreshing, and he discarded his frustration in favour of indulgence. Just this once, he was going to fucking enjoy it. He was going to let the sky's fury clear away his own, savour it as the storm washed away the remains of this morning's aggravation and displeasure. And he couldn't help it as he laughed out loud, pressing a hand to his forehead and sweeping it back through his ruffled, wet hair. It was like being a kid again.

His feet splashed unceremoniously through the soaking street, puddles collecting in the uneven paving. Sometimes you just had to laugh. There he was, new town, new faces, fresh start, and it just kept fucking raining. If that wasn't a sign he didn't know what was. He bit his lip to stifle a laugh, to keep the betraying humour locked away inside once again. He shouldn't have found it funny, ordinarily he wouldn't; he would be fuming and pissed. But it was just so damn _typical_. He hadn't even brought his jacket with him. Even he, with his shitty luck and foul mood, could laugh. His life was like a bad comedy, full of slapstick and bullshit. And even he could laugh at that.

He ducked into a side street, stuffing his hands into his pockets as the grin slowly started to fade from his face. The restrained humour lingered, though, Chris holding onto that feeling for all it was worth, knowing full well that it would disappear all too soon. He couldn't help thinking back to his childhood, to rain-filled days spent with his sister, his parents. Days that had been all too short and that would never be again. He remembered them fondly, wistfully, seeing Claire's smiling face staring at him from those long ago memories. A face streaked with rain, her messy fringe tangled against her forehead. She would run out into the rain before the first drop had even fallen and hold up her hands as if to catch it. Her upturned face would stare at the sky, eyes bright as if watching a miracle. And Chris would be behind her, stamping his feet in muddy puddles, watching it all as if for the first time.

_Until, of course..._

It was supposed to be good luck or something, a good omen, if it rained during a funeral. But he had fucking hated it. It was like the world wasn't satisfied with taking his parents, his happiness, it was taking _everything_. His childhood, his innocence, all the memories he had clung to, the only things he had left. Even Claire...

Her face that day had been what had stripped him of his composure. He had looked into her eyes but she wasn't there, she wasn't looking back. That look still haunted him, though she would never know. She could never know that she had broken him.

_Ah, shit._

He fumbled his mobile out of his back pocket and flipped it open, ignoring the rain as it pooled on the display. He had meant to call her. It had been two days since he had made that faltering call from the motel, and he had meant to check up on her. Or, he mentally corrected, allowed her to check up on him. He always indulged her in this one thing. However, the display didn't even blink when he opened it, the battery completely drained.

_Goddamn piece of shit..._

He pocketed it with a frustrated grunt, trudging forward with the rising shadow of darkness pawing at him through his weary haze. The smile faltered completely, his eyes firmly on the path in front of him. And he sighed. The moment gone all to soon. He tried to cling onto the fading memory of childhood wonder, but it too slipped away and disappeared. And all he was left with was the nagging feeling of guilt tying a knot in his stomach.

He just couldn't seem to escape its shadow, couldn't quite regain himself. And it wasn't always for lack of trying. He _had_ been attempting to spend a nice, quiet, normal morning in Raccoon City. He'd eaten breakfast on a sun-warmed patio, lazily flicking through the local newspaper that he'd picked up on the way there. He'd bought a packet of cigarettes from a newsagents, and even actually hesitated over buying a fucking postcard from the display he had found himself in front of. He'd asked the guy working there if there were any places worth visiting while he was in the city.

"Yeah," had been the reply. "The art gallery... but it's closed."

Chris hadn't been able to bite back the smirk that spread over his lips. He had figured as much. Instead, he'd settled for once again exploring the drab streets, solitary and unendingly tedious. There wasn't much in the way of sightseeing, not that he cared for any of that anyway. The shops were all local boutiques or specialised stores, not really offering him any interest. In fact, he had struggled to fill the hours until the gnawing of hunger started nagging at his stomach again and he had sought out the small cafe where he had eaten lunch. It had been quiet and relaxing, the food basic but appetising. And for a small while he had been content to sit there and let his body rest. Until, of course, he grew weary of his idleness and stepped straight out into the beginnings of a thunderstorm.

Which, he had already noted, he should have expected.

When his focus drifted back to the present, he realised his feet had stopped moving. He raised a hand to his forehead, massaging away the dull ache that was stirring angrily within him. With his eyes closed, he exhaled into the sticky, humid air, letting the rain caress his skin. The beginnings of distant rumbling sounded in his ears, and he could feel more than see the flash of lightening that followed.

That was when common sense kicked in.

He had to get out of the rain. He'd been completely soaked to the bone for almost the entire time he had been in Raccoon, and it wouldn't take long for him to get sick. He knew he hadn't been eating properly, and his fatigue was wearing him down... God, he really was being a stupid bastard.

Another rumble rolled out through the mountains, louder and more fierce than its predecessor. Chris glanced up through the tangle of untidy branches, seeing the densely forested hills in the distance. Raccoon seemed to be surrounded by them, cradled by a wall of woodland. Thunderstorms would be trapped within the bowl of the city, and this one was likely to last for hours. He sighed deeply, hesitated a second, and then pushed on forward through the open park.

Lightening flickered overhead, and the air was thick and humid, almost choking. Chris barely noticed it, though, suddenly feeling so worn down that he could hardly feel anything at all. It was as though he was nothing more than a guest in his own body, observing at a distance. Confined and helpless.

God... He didn't want to feel like that anymore. He hated the person he had become; despised the weakness that was cowing him. And yet, though he struggled and kicked and screamed and fought to break out, he found that he couldn't escape this morbid, endless darkness. It was suffocating and terrifying... And it was more than he could handle on his own.

_Why...? Why did you fucking do it?!_

Bitten fingernails carved red lines into his palms as his hands unconsciously fisted at his sides. He felt his eyes burning, a low growl of frustration and hatred spilling into the dark.

_Breathe..._

A quiet sigh and a silent curse.

_Breathe..._

He uncurled his fingers slowly, forcing his tense muscles to relax as he stiffly walked onwards. He could actually feel the anger drain from his body, a warm liquid-like sensation that flowed through his veins. And he could finally breathe again.

_Just... let it go._

Again, the words came back to him, calming and soothing. And again, he clung onto his failing composure, dragging himself back to his senses. Once again, he allowed himself to breathe.

_What is this place doing to me..? Why the hell am I here?_

He shook his head softly, swinging open the rusted gate of the unkempt park and taking the steps down to street level two at a time. He couldn't even begin to answer those questions, but for now it didn't matter. As another flash of lightening streaked overhead, he made his decision. With that familiar tightness clutching at his chest, and the feeling of guilt rising through his body, he knew it was time to move on. It was time to face up to his mistakes.

_Claire... I..._

He raised a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose, a nervous habit that he seemingly couldn't shake. He couldn't keep doing this. He couldn't keep being so selfish and irresponsible. Guilt, fear, pain... These things weren't rational and they all strived to break the threads connecting him to his sanity. One by one, he could feel them snap and sever. With every callous word, with every filthy look, with every raised fist... He could feel himself loosing it more and more, becoming a stranger even to himself. It was obvious and painful, and it was eating him up inside. But what was worse, he realised with sobering surety, was that Claire was more aware of it than he was, feeling the pain all the more acutely. She was watching him suffer, and hurting all the more to see the remains of her family crumbling and breaking apart. But this time, it wasn't God, or fate, it was Chris himself who was torturing her so.

His blood turned to ice in his veins, a shudder working through his aching body.

The decision was made. He was leaving this cursed city, leaving behind his suffering and pain. The city could have them; it thrived on such darkness. A parting gift, that's what it would be. Tomorrow morning, he would bid goodbye to this godforsaken place and offer up his anger to appease whatever it was that shadowed him through these soulless streets. His torment and guilt would remain, though, endless and unforgiving, but that was the price he had to pay.

But for now, as he reached the inviting warmth of his car and let his eyes rest on the locked glove box, he was content enough to let his pain engulf him. Swept away on a tide of fury, his fingers sought the comforting weight of his Beretta.

For now, he would let his dark emotions win

XXXXXXXXXX

Robert grinned, leaning one elbow on the battered counter top and brushing aside the papers he had been flicking through. Barry stood in the doorway, soaking wet with his hair plastered against his forehead. The scowl he was wearing told Robert not to bother saying anything clever. He couldn't keep the smile from his face though as he threw across a crumpled rag he took up from the counter. Barry caught it with a grunt, mopping at his face uncertainly with the dusty cloth.

Only the faintest strains of thunder could still be heard rumbling in the distance, though the rain seemed content to linger a little while longer. Barry had been caught in the deluge dashing to Kendo's from where he had left his truck a few streets away, his quick steps making no difference to his brutal soaking. And now, between the traffic on the roads and suddenly being thoroughly drenched, he could feel the shadow of fatigue chasing him.

The initial relief and excitement from his meeting with Irons were quickly draining away, leaving behind the weariness he had been pushing aside for the last few weeks. He longed to be at home, longed to be nestled close to his wife, feeling her warmth and her soft touch. Her petal lips...

He closed his eyes briefly, letting the image engulf him.

And then he gave a sigh and tossed the towel back onto the counter top. Now was not the time. As soon as he had finished his business here, he could be on his way, surrounded by those sweet thoughts. But, for the moment at least, this was his priority.

Robert was looking at him with a smile on his face, his ample body still propped against the cabinet as he waited for whatever news he was about to become privy to. But there was something else there, too. Barry could see the distinct glean in his eyes, as if Robert himself had something of great import to share. He crossed the space between them and nodded his head towards the gunsmith.

"What?"

Robert smirked slightly, one hand reaching up to lazily wave off the question.

"It can wait," he insisted, piquing Barry's interest all the more. "You're here on business, right?"

Barry quelled the incessant curiosity and nodded once. Always the professional.

"Irons is ready to draw up a contract, if that's what you want," he answered, watching as Robert's face creased slightly. "It'll only be contracted work rather than a constant demand but..."

Barry had made himself sound apologetic, but he knew that Robert wasn't looking for a fulltime contract. He would be pleased with this news. Indeed, the small smile slowly spread across his lips and he gave a nod of appreciation.

"I take it the board have finally agreed?"

"Yeah," Barry grinned, shaking his head softly. "It's not been made public yet but... I'm just so relieved I don't have to uproot Kathy and the girls again. "

He hadn't even realised how terrified he had been about that until Irons' words worked loose the knot of dread that had been lurking in his stomach. The image of his wife's face when he had told her they would need to move to Raccoon had haunted him since they arrived. She'd found it hard to settle at first, and the girls had been devastated. And he couldn't bear the thought of having to tell them it had all been for nothing. But now... The smile came unbidden. He allowed himself a moment to be consumed by it, then pushed it aside and reached out a hand. They shook like old friends before Barry took a step backwards and offered him a lazy grin.

"Welcome to the R.P.D."

Robert laughed lightly and nodded his head at the deadpan humour.

"Those are words I never needed to hear," he smirked.

Barry gave a short bark of laughter, feeling the tension melt away altogether. He could feel his body lose the knotted stiffness he had felt for the past month, feel the lightness force out the worry from the back of his mind. And it felt so good. It made him realised that he hadn't been himself recently, something that he could only appreciate in hindsight. He hadn't been aware of his strained humour, the dullness in his eyes, or the way Kathy frowned at him when the smiles he offered failed to override the frowns he had worn.

_I'll make it up to her..._

He would at that. The sheer thought of it made his flesh prickle. Ignoring the warmth that flushed through his body, and hoping it didn't reach his face, he gave Robert a final nod before turning to leave.

"I'll call in with the paperwork," he said, one hand reaching for the door. "Though Irons might call you for formality's sake. But, knowing him, I doubt it."

_Oh._

He paused, turning back round to face Robert fully, the curious frown setting itself back over his features.

"That's right," he started slowly, taking a step back towards the counter. "Just what was it you were grinning about when I came in?"

Robert was smirking at him, as though he was about to share some desperate secret. Barry's frown grew deeper at the expression on his face, and the confusion worked its way through his weary body. He wasn't sure that he liked where this was heading.

Robert, however, knew otherwise.

"I think there's someone here you should meet."

XXXXXXXXX

The smell of gunpowder was thick in the air, and the echoing peals of gunfire reverberated around the gallery. It was so familiar, so needed, but so bittersweet. The gun in his hands felt warm and comforting, though his chest tightened painfully and the knots of tension were nagging at his shoulders again. Even so, his aim was steady and precise. And if he closed his eyes and allowed himself to breathe in the scene, it almost felt as though...

"Well, I'll be damned."

Chris was jolted back to the present by that rich, deep voice he knew from yesterday. He glanced up, knowing that his face was picture of surprise, and saw the imposing frame of that Barry guy striding towards him. He frowned, placing his gun down on the battered wood and wondering what the hell he'd done to make that guy look so damn pleased to see him.

He'd been at the firing range for about an hour and a half now. After he'd escaped the downpour, he had returned to Kendo's to ask where, if at all, he could find a gallery. It was something that he could do that he could completely lose himself in, something that could take everything away and leave him with nothing but simplicity. It was how he relaxed, how he fought to control himself... And right now, how he took out his frustration in the safest possible way.

He hadn't really been surprised when Kendo had told him that there was a private range in the shop basement, but he had been thrown when being told the condition of its use. Official ID. Some kind of proof he was a cop or with the military. He had faltered for a moment, the hand reaching for his wallet becoming slack and falling back to his side. He didn't have anything anymore. Nothing. But then Kendo, apparently oblivious to his hesitation, had reeled off a list of acceptable paperwork and had given him a way out. Chris had managed to produce an old wage slip that had been stuffed into his wallet, and that had been enough. And it had been one more reason why he had to get things sorted.

But this...

Barry's gaze was fiercely directed towards the paper target he had been showering with bullets for the past ten minutes. He could see the mute shock in the guy's face, the slight disbelief and the shadows of suspicion. He'd seen it all before. However, this time, he wanted to know what the guy was thinking.

"Robert said you were a crack shot but..."

The way he trailed off drew the ghost of a smile onto Chris' lips. He found himself following Barry's gaze to where the abused target hung listlessly. Two holes no bigger than a bottle cap, aimed precisely and efficiently only at vital points. He couldn't stop the distant feeling of pride that rushed through him, but he couldn't entertain it either.

"I'm sorry..?"

Barry regarded the young man with a frown before catching himself. He closed the remaining few feet between them and nodded apologetically.

"Sorry, I just..." He couldn't seem to finish what he wanted to say. "Robert told me I had to come and see this."

He shook his head softly, not quite sure of what to say. Robert had mentioned that the guy from yesterday could give him a run for his money when it came to handling a weapon but... No _way_could Barry even think of competing with this guy. And, as he examined the target one last time, he noted that not even Speyer, the S.T.A.R.S. sniper, was a match for him.

The young man in question was looking at him with a dull expression on his face. He didn't seem to be interested in the fumbled praise that Barry was trying to get out. There was an uncertainty about him, some kind of hesitation and... hostility. His hands were loosely fisted at his sides, and his eyebrows were forming a perfect frown over his dark blue eyes. However, this defensive stance was at odds with the towel-dried hair that brushed against his forehead, and the loose cropped combats that made him look a little younger than he was. Barry had already noticed the holdall that rested against the wall behind them. He, too, must have been caught in the rain, but had been fortunate enough to have spare clothes with him. So then...

_He's leaving Raccoon?_

The breathless smile faded a little, and Barry realised that this probably wasn't what he wanted to hear. He forced the surprise from his face and adopted the composure he usually reserved for inspecting his team. He figured it was a situation the young man was more comfortable with.

"Chris, right?" he asked, receiving a blunt nod in return. "Sorry. I was just a little surprised, that's all. When Robert mentioned your service I didn't expect you to be able to shoot like this."

He saw Chris' eyes narrow slightly, his lips faltering to speak when Barry realised his mistake.

"He said he saw a picture of you with your unit in your wallet."

Chris felt the frustration flash through his blood. They had no right to be talking about him like that, making assumptions as to who he was. His fingers twitched against his palms.

_Breathe..._

He briefly closed his eyes. They'd just been interested, that's all. And this Barry guy was just trying to be friendly. God, why was he always so on edge?

He released a small breath, keeping that darkness locked inside. His hands found the gun again, finding some comfort in its weight.

"Air Force," Barry nodded, impressed. "So, you're a pilot, huh?"

Chris gave a wry smile as he ejected the spent magazine. "_Used_ to be."

That came out involuntarily. The words passed his lips before Chris was even aware that he'd thought them. Some kind of knee-jerk reaction. Barry wasn't aware of the inner turmoil that had just been struck up, though Chris' expression gave away everything else. His leaving the Air Force obviously didn't sit well with him, meaning it wasn't his desire to leave but circumstances gave him no choice, or...

Barry frowned, folding his arms against his chest. "What did you do?"

The smile faltered a little, his eyes looking weary and old for just an instant. Then it was gone, and Chris was looking up at him with the beginnings of an honest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Enough."

Another burst of gunfire told Barry the conversation was over. He backed up a little and let it drop, watching as the young man's keen aim tore through the paper target with effortless precision. Jagged edges framed a single hole to the left of the target's chest area. A clean hit through the heart. He whistled lowly, the sound muted in the near silence as the echo reverberated around the gallery. Every shot had followed the same line, following one by one through the initial tear. Not even Barry could manage that, and with such little time to steady himself and aim. Chris hadn't even waited between shots, squeezing the trigger in rapid succession until the clip ran dry with an empty _click_. It was outstanding.

However, the bitter word, 'enough', and the abrupt way he fired off rounds without even thinking... As a S.W.A.T. team leader, he knew how to analyse people. He had to. And he could tell, just by this short meeting, that this young man wasn't ready to find a place back in the military. He could see the dangerous recklessness hiding in his cobalt blue eyes. Some would call it youthful enthusiasm, but they would be badly underestimating the danger of someone like that. That wasn't the kind of attitude he would accept from someone on his team. He thought that was maybe the reason that Chris no longer found himself part of the Air Force.

"You questioned your Commanding Officer's authority."

Chris glanced up in surprise, his hands loose on his weapon. The words were stated, not questioning. If they had been he would have laughed it off and denied it, but this guy could see through him. It made him falter a little, but then his grip tightened around the butt of his gun and his frown deepened just slightly.

"Just who are you?"

Barry's expression never changed, and he made no attempt to answer the question.

"You start doing that and the whole team falls apart," he offered, noticing how the younger man bristled. There. That was the temper he would have to learn to control. "If the commander loses face, the team loses confidence. That's how it works."

Chris slapped his gun down on the lip of the dividing wall, his gaze rolling away as he huffed out his breath. There was so much he wanted to answer to those words, too many comments to tumble out all at once. But all he could muster was a bitter laugh.

"Yeah. That's how it works."

The clamour of the gallery seemed to silence in the space between the two men. Bursts of gunpowder and the gentle _ting_ of bullet casings hitting the cracked tile floor faded to nothing as Chris blew out the breath in his cheeks and turned away. He pressed a hand to the back of his neck, feeling the familiar tightness seize the sore muscles there. The stress, and the worrying and the suffocating sense of guilt... All of it pressed like a weight upon him and sapped the strength from his body.

He was aware of the presence beside him, and once again he felt his sense of reason gnaw at him. Once again he found clarity a little too late.

"Look," he sighed, dragging his gaze back round to where Barry was waiting. "I didn't mean-"

"I get the sense you say that a lot."

Barry didn't need an apology and spared the kid the effort of making one. But he couldn't stop the anger that was growing deep inside of him. He couldn't help the urge to slap that miserable expression right off his youthful face. This guy was a disgrace. Barry had rarely seen such talent in someone so young, and had never seen an aim quite like his. But there he was, with his furious temper and expression of self-pity... And he was throwing it all away. And for what? Because he'd made a mistake? Barry didn't have any time for people like that, and part of him wanted to just walk away.

And yet...

That part inside of him that had formed when he had first become a father, that part that wanted nothing more than to nurture and protect... It gave him pause. It made him hesitate just enough to see that this guy needed help, whether he would admit it or not. And he noticed, as he stared hard into those dark, angry eyes, that there was nothing there but guilt. And that was his one redeeming feature.

Some of the anger dissipated then, being replaced by an unwanted sense of sympathy. This guy had screwed up, and it was tearing him apart, leaving him with that dark expression. And in that face, Barry could see the possibility of redemption.

"You've got no reason to answer to me," he offered, being consumed by his instincts. "It's not any of my business. But listen to this."

He unfolded his arms and leaned forward against the stall wall, closing the distance between them until Chris could feel the warm moistness of his breath. To any one else it might have looked like they were kissing. Even so, Chris didn't back up. He was frozen in place by that furious indignation. The thought that this guy he didn't even _know_ was about to lecture him on something he had no authority over. The fact that this guy was getting in his face without knowing _anything_. The fact that it was fucking degrading to be reprimanded in such a way. He couldn't stop the baleful expression from slipping into place as he glared at the man before him. And then the words came.

"You've only got one shot at life, kid," Barry growled slowly, his voice low and sincere. "Don't screw it up by being an ass."

There was a moments pause. A moment of tense silence. And for a moment it looked as though Chris was going to take a swing at him. And then it passed. An honest look of mirth found its way onto Chris' face, his eyes brightening just a little.

"That's it?" he asked, humour lighting up his features.

"That's it."

Chris ran a hand through his hair as Barry backed up a pace. He couldn't stop the smile that unfolded, or the surprised laugh he was trying to bite back. He had to admit that he hadn't anticipated that. And for some reason, given the situation, the words just sounded funny to him. And he knew that had been the point.

Barry could see that Chris had been thrown by it, that he'd been expecting to be bawled out or some other dark, serious words to come snapping at him. Compared to what he had been imagined, the comment must have sounded stupid. His own smile formed as he watched the younger man shake his head softly. He'd succeeded. He hadn't wanted to lecture the young man, he'd wanted to ease the tension. He'd wanted to push aside whatever it was that stirred the dark anger within him. He wanted to be sure that this guy had more about him than a furious temper.

And it looked as though maybe he had.

Maybe, just maybe, there was something there worth saving after all.


	4. At the Bottom of a Bottle

**Author's Note:** This chapter has been sitting on my computer for… nigh on _three years_. Three whole years, eh? I don't even know what to say to that myself. Fail, maybe?

Big hugs to the people who are excited to see the alert for this chapter in their inbox. If you're happy to see this after a _three year _break then I love you more than words could ever show!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Resident Evil in any shape or form. If I did, Billy and Carlos would get their own game because they _rock so hard _and would make an awesome team.

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**At the Bottom of a Bottle**

Barry loosely cradled the phone in his hand, turning his back on the bar in a futile attempt to create some sense of privacy. Conversation was rife around him, too loud and too invasive, suddenly too much to take as his own dwindled and died.

_"I see."_

_"It's just that..."_

_"I know."_

_I know you do. And I'm sorry for it._

"I wasn't expecting to... you know."

_No. I never do. But the excuses to seem easier to find._

"I know." There it was again, that careful answer. "I might not be up when you get back."

Barry frowned when her voice returned, a little quieter and just a touch weary, and tried to placate her by telling her he loved her. He knew she was nodding on the other end, her brow pinched and lips trying to hold a smile to show in her voice...

"Yeah."

"Kiss the girls goodnight for me," he sighed into the handset. "I won't be too late. Promise."

_Promise_. The word scarcely held any meaning for them any more.

A soft click told him the conversation was over, and he replaced the handset into its cradle with a soft grunt.

He wasn't sure when things had changed between them, couldn't pinpoint the day he first left for work without kissing her goodbye, or the day she first sailed past him out of the door without a glance. A part of him feared the girls could tell him, though. That was his biggest regret.

His worst mistake.

Scrubbing a hand across his face, he turned back to the booth where the kid was sitting, a glum expression on those boyish features as he picked at the label of his beer bottle. The dark blue eyes under that pinched brow looked somehow old and weary, and Barry fancied at that moment their expressions were much the same.

_But there's the difference. You're getting old, have lived and breathed this tiring life, whereas he... He's still so much a child._

The wisdom in those dark eyes troubled him, but it was the distant exhaustion in those blue depths that unnerved him the most. What had they seen? What horrors had they witnessed? He wanted to know, needed to help, to feel like he was good for something again. He'd failed Kathy, he'd failed his precious girls, but he couldn't let himself lose his every sense of purpose.

But he knew, he knew damn well that he should have gone straight home, should just fix things there. His kids, for God's sake... But he couldn't. He couldn't face the fact that he let them all down. He'd tried, of course he had, but somewhere between the pleading and the fighting, he'd just grown tired of it all.

So fucking tired.

So now, he just needed to rest. To fix someone else's problem in place of his own. To let go of his weariness and start afresh with someone new, someone who didn't resent his presence or long for things he couldn't give. Kathy would wait for him, she always did. And while that wasn't the way he wanted things to be, wasn't the way things _should_ have been, it was simply how it was. He'd heard a phrase before - _It is what it is_.

_Wise words._

Perhaps. Perhaps on some level he believed that. Deep down, though? He was a better, wiser man than he gave himself credit for.

XXXXXXXXX

The music and the too-loud laughter were starting to grate in the confines of the claustrophobic barroom. Snatches of inane conversation registered somewhere in the back of his mind as his attention bounced back and forth between the beer bottle under his fingertips and where the guy from Kendo's phone call was trailing off.

_Barry._

Barry. Chris studied him as his fingernails worked at the label, watching his body language with vague interest. It was almost familiar, the way his feet took small, impatient steps as he moved on the spot - as if he were eager to break away from someone who wasn't physically there. His wife, was it? Well, Chris wasn't blind. He could see where that marriage was heading.

Sure enough, a few halted words later and Barry's eyebrows raised just a touch, glancing at the receiver like he was trying to see what he had heard. She'd hung up on him. From the way he blew out his breath and snapped the handset back into its cradle, it was clear to Chris that it was a pretty standard way of ending a phone call for them. Perhaps it wasn't always that way, maybe it was even rare, but it had happened before. And it would probably happen again.

So that was probably why he had insisted they go out for a drink. What was it he had said? _Two newcomers to a strange new town might as well get a beer just to be social. _But Chris didn't want to be social. It was simply that the alternative was to be alone.

The bottle found its way to his lips again, his hand moving of its own accord. It had been a few weeks since he had gotten well and truly pissed. He'd wanted to drink himself into oblivion all too often but, hell, might as well be when someone else was paying the tab.

"Yeah, I know."

Barry nodded his head at the way Chris leeched the last remaining drops from the bottle, returning to the table with two fresh drinks in hand.

Chris nodded but didn't smile.

"Yeah, I think you probably do."

They sat for a while in silence, that small exchange doing just enough to ease the tension and, in Chris' case at least, the hostility from the air. To a point, it was almost companionable. To anyone else it would have looked like two colleagues having a drink after work, bone-weary and thankful for the alcohol. Perhaps, to some, it would look as though they were friends.

Chris didn't know why it mattered, but he rather hoped that someone noticed them, someone had those thoughts. The idea of it made him feel a little more connected, and in the end it was even he who attempted conversation first.

"Your wife, huh?"

Barry seemed a little startled by his soft voice and blinked a little before he could speak.

"Uh, yeah. She was expecting me back but, well, you know how things get."

Chris gave him a sidelong glance. "No. I don't, really."

"It's complicated."

"Kids?"

A nod and the barest flush of pride. "Two girls. Still young enough that they're not embarrassed to be seen with their papa. That'll change soon enough, no doubt."

Chris' expression was inscrutable, but he muttered some sort of agreement under his breath.

"So, what about you?"

Blue eyes glanced up from the depths of the bottle. "What? Wife and kids? No."

Barry nodded and waited for more. Nothing came.

"Significant other?" he asked again when the silence continued to stretch.

At this, Chris turned away, his eyes seeming to scan the bar, as though he were involving himself in the scene, but Barry knew he was just looking for a way out of the conversation. So the kid was alone, too. No job, no girlfriend. No wonder he'd ended up in this dive of a town, drinking himself numb.

"She leave you?"

"No," Chris snapped, eyes flashing as he swung back to face him. And then a pause. "No. It's nothing like that. There's no one."

"No one?" Barry repeated softly.

There was a sigh, and then a moment where it looked as though the young man would crumble altogether. Fists clenched and unclenched on the table top and the obvious, prickling anger grew again. It was an odd mix of rage and vulnerability, but it seemed as though that in this kid, they often came together.

He watched as Chris leaned into the scuffed leather of the booth, tilting his head back until it rested against the cool wall. His eyes were staring up at the nicotine-stained ceiling with something akin to resentment shining in their depths. But then it passed and, with a smile that was somewhat incongruous, Chris faced him again.

"Not entirely no one, no," he offered, giving an awkward shrug that had been aiming for casual. "I've got a sister."

Barry frowned. "Your parents..?"

"Dead."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

Chris snorted, the sound dismissive and wholly derisive. "Don't give me that. You don't even know me."

A hand dug into a pocket to retrieve a crumpled cigarette packet and an old, battered lighter. The cloying, thick smell of smoke soon filled the air.

"No, I don't," Barry admitted when Chris once again fell silent. "So why don't you tell me? Why don't you tell me just who you are, Chris?"

_Who I am? I don't even know that anymore..._

"Why don't you go first?" Chris answered, his voice coming out tired and somewhat strained, like all the anger had been drawn from him somehow.

He watched as Barry's eyebrows drew down into dark, angled lines over his eyes, lips pressing together in thought. He was probably wondering whether it was worth the pay off just to get him to talk. Though, frankly, Chris couldn't see why he cared. Perhaps things were really that bad at home, so miserable that any little excuse to stay away longer was worth taking, even if it was just this. He wasn't a stranger to the feeling. Hell, look where it had gotten him, miles away from the one thing he had left, sacrificing even that. And for what? To get pissed in a shabby, run down town with a guy he didn't know, who he didn't even want to know?

A long drag on the cigarette and he was glancing at Barry again.

_What does this guy want? What the fuck is he doing here? Jesus..._

"Why aren't you with your wife?" he asked, shaking his head and staring at nothing. "Why'd she hang up on you?"

"Why aren't you with your sister?" Barry countered without hesitation, ignoring the distant twinge of guilt.

Dark eyebrows twitched on instinct, lips parting to exchange nicotine for alcohol.

"It wasn't always this bad."

Chris looked up at his drinking partner, seeing the ghost of a smile on his face. For the first time, he also noticed the golden wedding band on one stubby finger, glinting lowly in the dull light. It was polished and unmarred, and it appeared that that Barry wasn't as devoted to his frustration as he seemed. He clearly wasn't ready to let go.

"It's _isn't _always this bad," Barry continued, stressing the point.

Chris merely gave a small nod and turned his attention back the cigarette now hanging from his lips.

"Sometimes..." He paused to rethink his words. "My job isn't conducive to a healthy family life. Military, you know? There's always some new danger, some new crackhead with a gun or a guy just wanting to get one over on someone who stiffed him. Point is, every time I leave the house, she doesn't know if I'm coming back. Whether her girls will still have a father in the morning. And you try to convince yourself that its the right thing to do, that if everyone decided that it was a little too dangerous, a little to real, then we'd all be in the shit. And that's right, it's absolutely right but... it's not you who pays, is it?"

That question was meant for him, as someone who knew the life, the dangers. The fears. But he didn't answer. He simply remained silent, exhaling a plume of smoke into the air with distant eyes.

"Even so, it's what we do, right?" Barry asked, pressing again. "You get a taste for that kind of life and it suddenly becomes everything, the very air you breathe. And eventually, you suffocate without it."

Chris wasn't exactly sure when Barry had stopped talking about himself, only knew that those words had caught his attention, had grabbed at him as if trying to shake him into listening. Really listening.

It had worked.

Ash scattered across the tabletop as he moved to stub his half-burned cigarette out, head tilting to face the man beside him. There was the barest hint of mirth in the older, lined face, as though he knew he'd caught him. Even so, Chris felt no animosity towards him at that moment, nor, for a wonder, did he feel that darkness clawing at his skin. There was just... a silence. A quiet and a lull within him, something he'd almost forgotten how to feel.

It was like the world was beginning to make sense again - _he_ was beginning to make sense again - because some stranger had blundered into his life, thoroughly shook him up and put a name to his problems. Perhaps _that _was why he was here.

XXXXXXXXX

The kid was staring at him with a kind of calm spreading over his face. That familiar scowl had faded, so had the hardness from those dark, knowing eyes. For just a moment Barry glimpsed the real face under all that anger.

_Jesus, he's so young... Can't be more than... what? Twenty? Twenty-two?_

And here he was - alone, his parents dead, his career and self-esteem gone, and in the middle of it all a sister to take care of. A sister who had been left to fend for herself? No, perhaps it wasn't fair to judge him like that. He'd done his best for her, Barry was sure of that, just as he was certain that the anger that claimed him was so much for himself rather than anyone else. The kid had screwed up and he knew it. It was his fault, he'd let people down, and he had no one to help him out. And he couldn't seem to find a way to put things right.

He waited a moment longer, waiting to see if that careful, bitter mask would slip into place again. It didn't. And then he smiled.

"Right then," he grinned, knocking the tabletop with his knuckles. "A pilot, right? And a marksman. That's good. That's really good."

Chris blinked and gaped at him, caught off guard by the sudden outburst. "Sorry?"

Barry waved a hand, dismissing the question.

"You want back in, don't you?" he asked, leaning forward. "That's why you were at Kendo's, and that's why you keep a picture of your unit in your wallet-"

"Look, that's not any of your-"

"-but you don't know where to start, right? Well, I'll tell you."

And then Barry was close again, as close as he had been in the firing range, their noses just a breath apart.

"You lose that dark cloud above your head and I'll help you. You get rid of all that anger inside you, stop looking for the bad in everything and allow yourself to see some of the good, and I'll help you get back in. But until you do that, I can't help you. No one can."

Chris balked. "Just who are you to say-"

"I'm your last fucking chance, Christopher. That's who I am."


End file.
